Amalgamation
by Idiosyncranize
Summary: Blood is blood, no matter the source. In a world doing its best to heal from the ravaged war-torn world, paths cross and destinies combine. And love... love is found too, all starting with a bite.
1. Preface

_They sat at the table, the three of them. Molly Weasley, fresh tear tracks upon her cheeks, twirling a teacup between her fingers, her son Bill Weasley to her left, picking at the peeling wood, the scraping sound of it causing Sirius Black, across the table but down a bit, to pull at his hair, where his tattooed fingers already resided. The rest of the Order had left, the final stragglers leaving the kitchen to either vanish home to their loved ones… to revel in the feel of their safety and the hazy promise of tomorrow, or taking one of the many rooms in the dingy manor. Grimmauld Place was no palace, but for wallowing in near hopelessness, the darkening walls and fading wallpaper were ideal._

 _The silence in the kitchen, aside from the scratching of Bill's nails, and occasional muffled sobs as Molly was unable to stop another round of wondering grief, was anything but peaceful; deafening maybe, and hollow, but not peaceful. So when a colossal thumping echoed down from one of the many floors above, it caused the stricken woman, seated at the head of the table, to jump nigh out of her seat. Bill reached out his right hand, calloused and scarred, to grasp his mother's firmly. They could find some sort of respite in that at least. Sirius stood slowly, walking out of the room and immediately turning to head up the stairs, no doubt in order to offer whatever he could to his Godson above._

 _And then there were two… neither with any solace to offer._


	2. 1 - Waiting & Wondering

February 01, 1999. The magically enhanced calendar hanging above the mantle of the fireplace made the date obvious for all who looked upon it. As if any could forget. There had been an attack five days ago, out of the blue, and six people had been taken from the home of Andromeda Tonks. There was no word on whether or not they were alive… or even who had taken them. Yes, the war had ended almost a year ago in name, but there were still many supporters of the late Tom Riddle's regime, followers of a creature who had preached on the importance of blood purity and had died less than the man he had been born as.

Blood purity had not been an outward issue since. The Ministry, as well as the Wizengamot, had played catch up rather quickly in order to appease the British magical community, as well as those affected who were not British, or even magical, proving once again that they were not bound by any sort of regulation that they might believe themselves to be, but by what the majority of people with the most power and influence wanted. New Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, member of the Order of the Phoenix, had been doing his best in the months since his appointment to completely overhaul the Ministry, but such a thing had taken him longer than one might have expected. Firm regulations had been put in place to disallow anyone from working there who did not have the proper background and training, and to put a stop to a rampant underhanded favoritism and barter system which the Ministry had become known for. Many had been fired that did not meet the new Ministerial requirements, being told that if they liked the career they were in, then they should attain the proper requirements and apply once they had done so, being forced to start at the bottom and work their way up to where they wanted to be just like everybody else.

Also new was a mandate stipulating that anybody to be on trial would have the mandatory option of allowing themselves to be questioned under the effects of Veritaserum, as well as having their memories examined by a new team of the MLE that were specially trained in the observation and examination of said memories. Asininely archaic were the practices of sentencing and/or absolving of crimes without proper investigation. Those who had been sentenced previously to Kingsley being elected as Minister were allowed to have their cases reopened, if they felt they had been charged unfairly or unjustly. Things in the government definitely seemed to be taking a turn uphill. Along with making the Ministry and proceedings within law enforcement more just, laws of being overturned, as well as new ones being executed, in order to prevent prejudice. Werewolves, vampires, and other creatures of such were no longer required to identify themselves as such, except for in their personal files, where personal details concerning every free thinking resident of the British magical world were recorded in the event where they were pulled in for something or other by law enforcement.

The last adjustment to the law had only occurred a mere two weeks ago, and most in the Order believed that the kidnappings of those at the Tonks residence had been carried out because a large number of those in the Order had been pushing for the modifications to the Ministry. This point was driven home by the fact that Hermione Granger, the witch who had pushed strongly for said last adjustment, had been one of the kidnapped.

The ornate grandfather clock, left of the fireplace, chimed out with eleven booming groans, and Ronald Weasley, who had been sitting silently on a dark leather couch for over an hour now, staring at a Muggle chess set, jumped. Nearly simultaneously, the double doors of the library were pushed open, allowing in a frantic Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, the latter who looked as if he hadn't seen a wink of sleep the night before. Ron turned around to look at the pair, showing clear signs upon his pale face that sometime previous he had let tears fall. Seeing who had entered, he turned back around, staring into the empty fireplace, the two other young men joining him. Nobody spoke, and aside from a tilted nod of acknowledgment to one another, no communication passed. As the new hour passed on, two of the boys grew more frantic, fidgeting and glancing upwards towards the clock and calendar more frequently. The third of the group did the opposite, becoming even more still and tense than he already was, a seeming improbable feat. As the hour drew on, more seemed to gather in the library. Sirius came first, taking a spot against the wall to the left of the doors, as if attempting to mold himself into the very foundation of the building. Soon after him was Molly, led by Bill. His wife, Fleur, and Pansy Parkinson, who was never far from the female head of the Weasley clan after she'd taken Pansy under her wing, trailed behind. Both were pregnant. While Fleur was openly crying, Pansy showed no apparent sign of distress, her calm demeanor only given away by a tremor in her left hand that wouldn't seem to give. As Molly and Fleur sat in a loveseat, Bill took his place behind them, somehow managing to appear stoic and yet disastrously troubled all at once. Pansy took a seat in between Ron and Harry, taking Ron's hand in the process. He, in turn, seemed to somehow unwind just a tad at the comforting touch .They were not together, and never had been, but the budding friendships after the end of the war had brought them close together, and their child would be due in just under two months, a little girl. George was next, fiercely holding the hand of his wife Angelina. They'd finally finished putting to bed their twins, making it down just five minutes before the clock would begin its 12am countdown.

Five

Ron shifted on the couch, tearing his gaze from the fireplace and back towards the chess set, somewhat hoping that running through the strategies of the game would be an adequate distraction from the tragedies of the present… as if maybe the hour would strike and the sorrows wouldn't adorn the room like Christmas decorations anymore.

Four

Pansy met the eyes of Molly, giving a slight smile towards the older woman, and squeezed harder the hands of both Harry and Ron. She'd grasped them as the last stragglers had ambled in, and hadn't been able to let go until this moment. In doing so, she made a move as if to hug herself, placing her arms around her growing stomach… as if to draw the comforting innocence of the child inside her womb around her, to protect her from whatever coming fate were to occur.

Three

As Molly drew her eyes from the somewhat solemn girl adjacent to her, the girl who would be giving Molly her third official grandchild, she let them fall upon the young man directly across from her. He looked unwell, not unusual considering the full moon had been just the night before, but more so. Draco Malfoy had never pretended with anybody to be anything other than a relative to his mother but Molly had sensed a growing warmth between the two… as if the distance between them were ebbing away as they come to know each other as son and mother… as loved ones. Along with dear, trying Narcissa, Andromeda and Teddy had both been taken… the only somewhat immediate living relatives that he had left.

Two

Bill's hand was on his wife's shoulder, whether to leverage some of his anxious fury onto somebody else or to keep him anchored to the reality of the love and support of those around him and beyond, he didn't know. He wasn't sure if he even cared to differentiate between the two, and if he did, now certainly wouldn't be the time. His father, his twinkly-eyed, brow-beaten, technology-loving dad was gone. They'd certainly had a bond, Bill and his pops… Bill had been his first, and something about that had bonded them in a way that they weren't bonded to anybody else. Father and son; if anything were to happen to Arthur, that would make Bill man of the house… the technical head male of the family… but Bill couldn't think of that, not now, and hopefully not for a long, long while. So he gripped Fleur's shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to banish the images that kept popping up there… as if such a simple thing as eyelid movement could clear the erratic terror in his very being.

One

Angelina Weasley, née Johnson had married George three hours before the Final Battle had occurred. They'd rather optimistically informed the Ministry Official that it might give them good luck in the coming days… as if the wonderful good their union created might fizzle out some of the bad that was seemingly present everywhere. They hadn't told anybody but Fred, who was their sole familial witness to the occasion. And then, that same night… the night they should be celebrating, the night that would go down in history… Fred was just gone, a smile on his face and a heart that hadn't let the impossible darkness of the war bring him any less joy… he was gone. It had affected her husband in ways that nobody had even considered preparing to expect. He refused to eat for the first four days, and eventually needed to be hospitalized to keep him from dying. He wouldn't look in mirrors, had died his hair a shade of brown… most alarmingly, he hadn't laughed, not even a snicker, for the first four months, not until their twins, Fred II and Roxanne, had been born. They'd been tiny little things, and her pregnancy had barely showed, a fact that had everyone startled when they'd found out from the Healers how far along she was. The twins had needed to stay at St. Mungos for two months before they'd been able to come home. George… well, he was doing better now, but for this to happen, just when so much good was beginning… it had thrown him through a loop… it had thrown all of them through a loop. Angelina hadn't stopped praying since the moment the news had come to their ears that everything would turn out alright.

The grandfather clock let out its booming clang, and despite the many pairs of eyes that had been keeping track of its movements, several had started at the noise. The others just kept on waiting… watching… trying to finish preparing themselves but not really knowing how, or even for what. Ron, near frozen on the couch for all but his mouth, asked the question that nobody had any sort of answer to.

"What… what happens if… what if no-" He takes in a breath. A long, shuttering gasp for air that sounds as if he hasn't taken in a proper breath in days before readying himself the best he can to finish what he'd started, "What if nobody comes through?" Pansy reaches over and grasps his hand, but nobody answers him. Nobody has to. The silence is enough.

The last clang sounds hollow in the great room they all reside in, and as it fades, every last eye moves to the fireplace… the fireplace that begins to emit jade flames, popping out relatives and relations that those gathered in Grimmauld Place hadn't seen for nearly a week. Andromeda came first, holding a swaddled and flailing Teddy in her arms. The one year old was red faced and dirty, and a smell terribly ferocious came from the pair. With the grateful sigh of a parched man discovering water, the entire room moved at once, a synchronized dance of bodies who had unintentionally memorized the best routes to caring and healing those damaged by battle. Andromeda fell into the waiting arms of Fleur, Teddy into Harry's, as Pansy racing towards a table to the right of the melee to her mix of potions, mumbling under her breath and taking quick looks towards Andromeda and Teddy while making wide and swooping gestures with her wand to get the correct diagnoses.

The two returned were led towards where Pansy was waiting, being sat down and handed various potions to take. While Andromeda promptly swallowed them down, regaining color and vitality near immediately, Harry was having a harder time of getting the sniffling Teddy to take the liquids, that in the first place, probably didn't taste very appealing, especially for a one year old. Fleur, the Healer of the group, ran her own set of diagnostics, conferring with Pansy, and the two women, after Andromeda and Teddy had taken the basic healing and antibiotic potions, started to come up with a game plan in order to treat the two that had come through. Minutes later, people were starting to get worry. Was this grandmother and grandson all that was left? Molly was still frozen on the couch where she'd been originally, but now, her nails were tangled into her hair and wheezing sobs rocked her body. Bill sat with her, an arm around her shoulders, his own tears falling down his face.

But then the fireplace was raging greed fire once again, and stumbling out was Arthur, holding a lifeless Ginny in his arms, and then Narcissa. The fireplace became empty and cold once again, the soot on the hardwood in front the only reminder of its previous life. As soon as she saw them stumble out, Molly sobbed harder, racing as fast as she could towards her husband and youngest child, words still too difficult to pronounce even now. Ginny still didn't move. Arthur, with bruises showing through his ripped robes, caked blood on his right temple, and a pronounced limp, nearly fell forward to place his still daughter on the couch.

"Please… please help her…" With that as his final, and only, words of that day, he collapsed as well, crumpling to the floor unconscious. Fleur and Pansy, done with the grandmother and grandchild at the moment, and who had already been heading towards them, crowded around the new set of patients. Sirius was handling the rest of the Weasley clan, who were all fighting to get to their unconscious loved ones. Forcibly, but not unkindly, a calming draught was given to Molly. And after some shouted words to Bill, who was then able to gather himself enough to recognize the need for his wife and Pansy to work in an organized environment, removed himself from the room, leading Molly to the kitchen. Sirius, who had sent a stunning spell towards Ron after he'd begun blaring out ear-piercing queries about injuries, all mixed in with a solid array of mixed expletives, levitated the nineteen year old out of the library, presumably up to one of the empty bedrooms above.

Draco, sitting by his mother on the recently vacated love seat, not touching but quickly mumbling to one another under their breath, seemed to be in much better spirits already. His ash and chrome eyes were brighter, and his cheeks seemed to have gained a bit of color. Draco had the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled to the elbow in order to grasp his wand that was hidden in its holder there… in doing so, a wrap-around bandage could be seen, running the length of the back of his forearm and disappearing under the cover of fabric. Narcissa was looking at it, troubled. It seemed entirely unfair that her son would suffer in such a way, every month, while the people that had taken her and the others had refused to even lay a hand on her besides making sure that she couldn't escape… all because of Pureblood archetypes. Narcissa looked back up and into the eyes of her grown child, and made to answer yet another question of his, doing her best to push the exhaustion from her features. She understood the importance of gathering information in haste. If even a detail was forgotten, it could change everything.

Across the room, George and Angelina, the only remaining and alert Weasley's in the area, had moved to do what they could. The young women who had placed themselves in charge of medical care had seemingly done all they could with Arthur and Ginny. As Fleur moved to evaluate Narcissa, who kept insisting that she was fine, Pansy levitated Arthur up to a room, Angelina following her example and levitating Ginny. George left the room, Flooing from a separate fireplace, first to St. Mungos, and then to the Ministry. Both needed to be alerted of the changed status of the kidnapping victims.

It seemed everything was coming to a reluctant peace, a stasis of needing to be able to offer so much more than they physically could, and not knowing what they should even offer at all. It was only after the returned had all been moved to separate rooms to rest and await specialized Healers from St. Mungos to deem them healthy and in good form that Ron, Harry, and Draco reconvened back into the library, a singular question on all of their minds that nobody had an answer to, even after Draco's pushing questions to his mother.

Why had Hermione not come through?


	3. 2 - The Beginning of Everything

Chapter 2 | The Beginning of Everything

The Order of the Phoenix, in the year subsequent to what had come to be known as the Final Battle, had learned one extremely important lesson. Prejudice is prejudice, no matter the form. All around them, the magical community lay shredded with the remnants of what most believed to be a functioning community. But it hadn't been. There had been death: death in the name of purity, death in the name of the greater good. Death of dreams, and death of the future, and death of whole families. Death. It suffocated and burned the life out of every trying being. The spirit of anything worth living for had seemed to have vanished into a memory, a hope that very few had seemed able to grasp upon with even a glance, let alone both hands.

Many, in their lifetimes, had come to expect the passing away of themselves, of their relatives, of their neighbors and their bosses and maybe even the widow down the street who they might send gift baskets to on holidays, as if to drown out their own melancholy guilt over the fact of somebody not having anybody to celebrate with. But the war… the never-ending fight of pulling and pushing on the balance… the scale had tipped. Massacres and rape, torture and kidnapping. Nobody was safe. And after that Battle… the amount of whole people left to pick up the pieces was nigh to zero. Everybody had been affected, no matter what side they'd been forced or chosen to take, no matter if they had fought against being pulled in by claiming neutral. No matter if they weren't even a conscious part of the war at all.

Not everybody saw this, but Hermione Granger? Hermione Granger did. She'd always thought that gray was a prettier shade than black or white anyways. And in her mind, the task of breaching that middle area had fallen to her.

The first time she'd done it was at The Three Broomsticks. She was there with Harry and Ron, as well as Ginny, Neville, and Luna. They'd just finished rebuilding a large segment of Hogwarts, and were out to celebrate the feat before ambling off home for the night. Ron and Harry were in the middle of a drinking game and Luna was across the bar talking to Hannah Abbott, the new barmaid helping out Madame Rosmerta. Ginny and Neville were talking about how a professional Quidditch player for the Ballycastle Bats had been disqualified for coating his broomstick in different substances that increased performance.

Hermione was sitting in between the two chatting pairs, finding amusement in how Neville couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from Hannah for more than a couple minutes. Boredom though, was at the forefront of her mind. All she really wanted to do was go back to Grimmauld Place, soak in a piping hot bath, and go to bed with the windows open and a breeze upon her skin. Instead, she stayed. Harry and Ron weren't ready to go, and since they were hitting back the Butterbeer like nobody's business, she worried about them apparating. Ron still had some level of anxiety over being splinched all those months ago, and Hermione knew that if he attempted it while drunk, he'd let the panic overtake him and surely would end up splinched once more. Besides, as much as she longed for the settling comfort of four walls and a place where she felt safe letting her guard down, she didn't really want to head back home either just yet. She just needed something to occupy herself with. Looking around once more, as if the fates might've heard her silent cry for something scintillating, that's when Hermione saw her.

Pansy Parkinson had always intrigued Hermione Granger. Pansy made herself out to be a pureblood princess, a golden girl that was so much higher up on the pedestal that no other girl could ever even attempt to be successful in reaching her heights. Hermione didn't buy that. She'd had cousins like that, who felt the need to ooze self-confidence by putting other people down just to feel as if they were doing a better job of hiding their own self-doubt. She figured Pansy was like that too, even when they were just girls starting out at Hogwarts. The intrigue came from wondering what had pushed Pansy to not inwardly believe in the holier than thou pureblood pomp that she sported so well. At least… she'd wondered until fourth year, when in the girl's lavatory, she'd seen the bruises.

Hermione was in a stall when she'd seen them. Dark blue and mottled green, the girl the next station down had been gripped so hard that Hermione could see the imprint of each and every finger around her neighbors ankles, just above the rim of where her suede shoes touched her ankle, as if the owner of the bruises next door had been grasped something awful and then yanked, holding her there. Before she could get out of the stall to see if she could help whoever it was on the other side, the other girl had finished up, washed her hands, and vanished out into the mob of other students on break.

It wasn't until later, when Hermione recognized the same shoes, belonging to the girl currently insulting her for her hair and teeth, that the identity of the abused girl was discovered to be Pansy. Hermione had tried her best to help after she'd begun to suspect. She, the fifteen year old that she was, went to the library, pulling out every book she could on family, Purebloods, and laws defining abuse. She'd told McGonagall and even brought it up to Ron - not mentioning Pansy's name of course. She wouldn't out the girl without her permission. All three sources told her the same thing, that the Ministry's old and outdated laws defined women as property to the males in their families, and that unless the Ministry were to change suddenly, the poor girl was most likely a lost cause.

Hermione didn't buy that. That same night she faked a migraine and went to see Madame Pomfrey, and as Pomfrey's back was turned, occupied with fixing the correct dosage for Hermione, she filched some bruise salve. Maybe Hermione couldn't get those laws changed yet, but she wasn't just going to let the poor girl suffer with the results of the abuse until she could.

The next day at lessons, she'd used Wingardium Leviosa and a Disillusionment Charm to propel the salve into Pansy's bag during their Potion's lesson. It wasn't as if the girl could go get it herself without embarrassing herself, Hermione figured. As to why it hadn't been magically healed in the first place she could only guess that it must be someone from home doing it to her. That day in the bathroom had been two days after the Winter Holidays after all.

Throughout the next couple years, Hermione periodically made the salve drop into Pansy's bag during lessons, usually the day after break ended. She was a Gryffindor after all, and what could be more Gryffindor than doing her best to help a fellow woman, despite the supposed blood enforced animosity between them?

So when Hermione saw Pansy's telltale blue-black hair, falling in thick waves to below her shoulders, shielding her face from onlookers, it wasn't a matter of recognizing and choosing to ignore the girl all alone. It was a matter of deciding the best way to bring the young woman into her fold of friends.

Hermione, sneaking a sip of Harry's liquid courage, stood to make her way over to the corner. She had watched for a couple minutes to make sure that Pansy was actually alone before she'd made her move. For all Hermione knew, things had resolved themselves in Pansy's life, and the young woman hadn't known the suffering that Hermione had seen for quite some time. But, as the clocked ticked the minutes by, nobody joined the raven-haired girl. She didn't glance to the check the time. She just stared down into the glass of whatever she was drinking.

The wooden chair creaked and groaned as Hermione sat at the table in front of Pansy, wincing as the wood pulled and shifted in order to accommodate her weight, resting her hands palms down in front of the mug that the other woman grasped with all her might. Hermione saw as manicured finger tips moved to squeeze tighter about the drink they were grasping, but the girl opposite the war hero did not look up.

They sat there, in silence. It wasn't necessarily awkward… how could it be when you're unsure of anything that could possibly happen? It was simply… anticipatory. Finally, after being jostled by a harried father carrying his screaming child towards the toilet, Hermione decided to speak.

"My mother used to tell me that the best way to start a relationship is to just be there in moments with people. And… you kind of look like you need somebody to just _be_ with. And if you are, I'm okay with being that person… if you'll let me?" Pansy didn't speak, but her sapphire green eyes finally met that of Hermione's brown amber. A tear fell. But still, there was silence. And so they sat, the beginning of everything starting with a decision and a small offer of companionship.

That had been eight months ago, and since then, things had progressed better than anybody might've expected. After the initial budding of their friendship, Hermione and Pansy had begun to do more than just exist in the same world with one another. Hermione stopped to chat with Pansy at the Apothecary one evening, and again when Pansy had been sat on a bench outside of a boutique reading Witch Weekly. The next Saturday, Pansy hesitantly attended a Weasley dinner, and from there, things just seemed to stick, especially with her and the youngest male Weasley.

Ronald had always been rather rash. With him, a simple joke was turned into doubled-over guffaws; the birth of a new baby had him bawling with the rest of them. There wasn't much that Ron Weasley did at half pace, except for maybe homework. He was an all or nothing sort of guy. Pansy, on the other hand, could be rather standoffish. She was quiet, though she liked to think of herself more as _demure._ She thought things through with an extreme precision that could give Hermione Granger herself a run for her money.

When Hermione had first invited Pansy to that fated weekend barbeque, with Arthur and Molly's permission of course (as well as everybody else's - she didn't want to step on anybody's toes), she hadn't expected one of her best friends to have taken on as well with Pansy as he had. They'd somehow managed to both be the last sitting for the meal, and the only available spot left had been on a wicker chair near food-laden table. Ron, with a tell-all grin, had ceremoniously bowed Pansy towards the chair, plopping himself onto his pockets at her feet.

From there, things with them had progressed rather quickly. They weren't dating exactly. In fact, neither one of them were looking for any sort of commitment, or expecting to find any. After the war, Ron hadn't been looking to plant any wild oats down, and Pansy, well, after the childhood she'd endured, trust didn't come easy for her. But the two seemed to become rather important to one another, like the earthen grounding both of them seemed to lack.

After a whirlwind of midnight conversations, a spectacular row in the midst of a lightning storm, and then tears whilst sitting at the kitchen table after the fact, Pansy had admitted to an aggravated Ron, and an eavesdropping Molly, that Pansy hadn't any place to go that signified home for her. One harried conversation with Arthur five minutes later and Pansy had promptly been offered a home there, at the Burrow. There were a multitude of empty bedrooms there, after all. Percy had decided to remain in his flat close to the Ministry after Fred had passed, and George was living with Angelina in the flat above his joke shop. As well as those rooms, Harry and Hermione had both moved into Grimmauld Place with Sirius, and Bill and Charlie's old room was empty too.

After some hesitation, and some wheedling from Ron, Pansy had agreed. That very afternoon, Pansy's belongings had all been transferred to the empty room a floor down from Ron's, and for the first time in a very long time, Pansy had felt that she had a relatively safe place to land. Molly was ecstatic about the new household member to pamper, and seemed to take the quiet young woman under wing, and Pansy, whose own mother had become a resident of St. Mungos by doing of her father, felt that the matron of the Weasley's filled a gap within her that she'd missed sorely.

Two weeks and one hopeful Molly Weasley later, and a positive pregnancy potion sealed Pansy firmly within the Weasley's forever. Ron and Pansy, a bit carelessly fueled by a bit of Firewhiskey, had fallen into bed together, resulting in the formation of a fetus. The pair had decided together to keep the child, even if they couldn't see anything progressing romantically with them. Pansy had always wanted children, and so had Ron, more than anybody had expected. He had never put forward much interest in children, and when Molly had suspected the glowing girl might be carrying, Pansy had been quick to whip up the potion. As her stomach had glowed blue after ingestion, it was a sure sign.

Only a few weeks after that and Pansy had decided to take on an apprenticeship with Professor Slughorn. The rebuilding at Hogwarts was far from being finished, but it hadn't stopped the pair of them. Apparently, Pansy had, in Slughorn's own words, "great potential."

A few weeks after that and Hermione's plan was continued into action. Blaise Zabini, a friend of Pansy's from back at school, had arrived at the Burrow looking for Ron. He had only just been told about the pregnancy, and upon learning who the father of the child was, had immediately set out to find said father.

He'd arrived at George's joke shop first. Ron was working there at the moment, to cover for his brother who had been taking lots of time off since Fred's passing. Between that and the rebuilding, most of his time was taken up, and near everybody knew it too, thanks to Witch Weekly dubbing him fifth on a list of "Wizarding Britain's Most Eligible Bachelors." Harry, of course, had made first. It was basically a given after the whole "saving the world" thing.

When Angelina and George had been there instead of Ron, they'd kindly offered to take Blaise to the Burrow, or rather, he'd asked them what their home had been gently nicknamed, and after they'd bemusedly told him, he'd ran off to their fire place and had used the Floo to appear in the Weasley's living room, George and Angelina hurriedly arriving ten seconds later.

Blaise had immediately started roving the home, shouting out Ron's name. When George promptly pounced on him to stop the intruder, scuffling with him on the floor, both of their wands knocked to the side, Blaise had only started yelling louder. It was only when a stiletto had pressed itself precariously against where Zabini's family jewels were kept, had he stilled, looking up towards a fiery redheaded girl that was looking down at him with scorn, as well as a fair bit of amusement, on her face.

"Caught yourself a Zabini there, I see, Georgie," Ginny had giggled, digging her heel in a bit more forcefully when Blaise scowled and struggled a bit more. George, standing himself up and rubbing his purpling eye, had rolled his eyes at her, gesturing to the placement of her foot, before casting a stupefy upon the irate wizard stuck on the floor.

Ginny moved her foot just as the rest of the present household had charged into the room. Most everybody had been out for the day, either at Grimmauld Place or work, when the former Slytherin had invited himself to the Burrow. The only ones in the house had been Ginny and Ron, before the trio out of the fireplace had arrived. Ron walked in slowly, as if nervous, standing beside the doorframe and gripping his wand tightly in his non-dominant hand. In his dominant hand was a mug full of what looked to be pumpkin juice.

"Zabini…" Ron had started, "Pansy said you might want to have some words with me. I hadn't thought your entrance would be so Gryffindor-like though." He chortled a bit, watching as Blaise's rolled his own eyes, just as George had done minutes earlier. "I'm guessing that you're here to ye –er, talk about the baby, right? And before I ask my brother there to remove the stupefy, I want to let you know that this isn't a joke to me. I may not love Pansy in the way that I want to marry her, but I do love her. She kinda feels like a soulmate to me, but, more like a mate than anything. This baby is going to be loved, and it's going to have a present father. I'm not going to go slacking about concerning something like this, she has my word."

With his speech finished, he nodded towards George, who lifted the spell, but who kept a close eye trained on the previously impeccably dressed Pureblood. Blaise hesitated a bit, tilting his head a bit to the side, as if choosing the best words to convey his message.

"Well Weasley, I guess that settles it, but if you fail to comply to what you've told me, or told her in any matter, we'll have words. And those words will be accompanied by some very semi-legal waves of my wand." Blaise nodded, as if that summed it up, and Ron did too. A minute ticked by in silence.

Ginny, flouncing forward from her place where she'd been standing with Angelina, thoughtfully listening, broke the quiet. "Well, now that you two are done with the masculinity measuring tape, I suggest we all move to the kitchen. Mum made some blueberry scones before she left to drop some off to Slughorn and Pansy, and they've been calling me since the smell they started to give off when they were put in the oven. Anybody else game for some? Zabini?" Blaise hesitantly trailed after the youngest in the home down a hallway and into a bright room, a long wooden table in the center where a batch of the enticing pastries lay in wait, indeed, wafting a heavenly scent.

Ginny rummaged through the cupboards as the rest of them all sat in near silence. Blaise, uncomfortable as he was, was drawn to the Weasley girl. She was taller than she'd been back at school, and her hair was longer, twirling around itself and creating an visage that was appealing to the eye. Her skirt was dotted with a design of daisies, and before he thought about what he was doing as he usually might, Blaise was drawn to watching that extra inch of skin appear as Ginny rose on her tiptoes, fingers stretched out to grab a mug that was apparently trying to mold itself into the back of the cupboard.

When Blaise felt eyes on him, he drew his gaze away, looking across the table to see Ron raising an eyebrow towards him. Caught in the act, the blush upon Blaise's face was hard to spot, but certainly there.

Later on, when Molly had arrived home with Pansy, sent home early after an unruly bought of morning sickness, it was to see a motley group sat around the kitchen, sliding into an ease of banter that had definitely not been there twenty minutes before. Ginny, ever the ice breaker, had started into the seemingly neutral topic of Quidditch. Everybody there had been a player on a Quidditch team at some point, and it was when Blaise and George had discovered a mutual love for the Appleby Arrows, while Angelina fired back with how much better the Holyhead Harpies were, that the frozen platform the group were sat on had started to thaw.

When Hermione had heard about all of this later on, she was immensely sorry that she had missed the minor altercation, but grateful nonetheless that the bridge between all the different sides of the war had been breached once more.

The next part of Hermione's piece by piece plan was put together when Pansy had gone out to lunch with Blaise weeks later, with Hermione and Ginny invited to tag along. The hope of running into _him_ and getting said _him_ to join their little group had seemed daunting, nigh unconquerable. But then five minutes into their journey, Blaise had suggested they stop by the apothecary really quick, because he needed to ask Draco Malfoy something concerning one of his summer houses, and it was a done deal. Hermione's silent hopes had been fulfilled and soon enough they were entering the single door to the business shop that Hermione had always been fascinated by. Blaise and Ginny walked ahead of her, laughing and knocking into one another with their shoulders, Pansy ahead of them and leading the quartet, in a hurry to get to the bistro they were planning on eating at.

Hermione hung back, ducking under a hanging chain of gurdyroot's and nearly knocking into a shelf packed to the brim with jars packed to the brim and labeled specifically. Walking forward, Hermione slid between two other shelves in order to get to the front desk, stopping on her way to smell some sunflower oil, her favorite, along the way.

She could see her friends now, clustered around a desk that looked insignificant amongst the tall storage shelves and hanging ingredients in the store. In the center of them, a platinum blond was talking with his dark-haired male best friend. Hermione stopped.

The last time she had seen Draco Malfoy had been four months ago, at the war trials. She'd testified for him, and for his mother, along with Ron and Harry, and the whole time, she'd looked straight in his eyes. She wanted him to know exactly what she thought of him, without him interrupting or distracting her, and she hadn't held back. His situation had been no different than Harry's, put into a life where he hadn't had a choice that allowed him to truly just do what he wanted, rather than what was expected of him, taught to him, and what he was forced to do. She'd convinced Harry and Ron of this too, eventually, though in the end, they'd seen much of the same thing when his memories were shown to the court and he was put under Veritaserum. Everybody with at least three brain cells to rub together had.

Still, despite the unfiltered and unadulterated opinions and facts that she'd given concerning everybody she'd been asked to testify for during those trials, they still had a whole heap of history between them that prevented Hermione from just walking up to him and saying hello like they'd said it a thousand times before. Because they hadn't, and Hermione was not in the practice of just skimming over things to forget them.

So she hung back and watched. From what she could gather, Blaise was trying to convince Malfoy to let him use one of his vacation homes in Northern Italy, specifically because it had a full Quidditch Pitch he wanted to make use of, to host a weekend gathering for some of his friends, and whoever Draco wanted to invite, in a months' time.

Pansy was trying to prop herself up on top of the tall counter, which she might have previously been able to do, but being pregnant, was finding trouble with, and Ginny was laughing good naturedly at the put-out expression on the raven haired girls plight. Hermione envied the ease that Ginny seemed to find in this specific situation, standing so close to the blond man who was currently telling Blaise that the house was his mothers, not his, and that if he wanted to use it, that's who he would have to convince. Finally, Blaise threw his hands up in the air dramatically, before holding them over his chest as if insinuating the his best friend had broken his heart, causing a small smirk to appear on Malfoy's face. And then he turned, and Hermione knew that his eyes would have caught her in all her curly haired glory, hanging back and watching him. He turned to meet her gaze full on, the smirk from his face falling into an expression of nothingness. Hermione had always prided herself on being able to read people's expressions, but with Draco Malfoy's, in that moment, she might as well have been drowning in uncertainty. And then, a small smile rose on his lips, and he nodded his head down towards her.

"Hermione Granger," he spoke quietly. "It's been awhile." She nodded herself, a feeling of instant relief appearing in her body, and her stance as padded forward softly showed it too.

"That it has, Draco Malfoy. I trust that life has been treating you well?" Her voice seemed barely above a whisper, but it carried throughout the shop. She was at the counter now, and nudging past Blaise, rested a forearm atop it.

"Thanks to you." Another small smile graced his face, and Hermione met his eyes once again. She could see gratitude there, and something else. Something implacable… maybe even undefinable. Breaking the contact, Hermione glanced towards her left, seeing the trio there watching the exchange carefully, and somewhat cautiously. All five of them in that room knew exactly what had taken place between the two that had been so carefully conversing, and it seemed that the others had waited with bated breath to see what would occur. Ginny even had her wand half drawn from its holster.

Pansy was the one who broke the silence again though, asking for the time and complaining that the bistro was going to close its lunch menu soon, and that if Draco was coming with them, he'd better get a move on. Blaise laughed, and Ginny smirked up at him when he did so. Something seemed to be brewing between those two, Hermione thought, watching them, but she wasn't sure what. It was then though, that Hermione realized that she was being watched too.

She turned her head, searching for whoever was staring at her, and met Draco's. He seemed to be waiting for something, searching her own expressing for something that Hermione wasn't sure of. And then it clicked. He was seeing if she was okay if she joined them for lunched. While he may have bad blood with more than just Hermione, it was Hermione who had gotten the brunt of it in the group gathered within the apothecary, and it really spoke to her that Draco Malfoy seemed to want to make sure she was okay and comfortable if he came with them. And, she was. Hermione nodded towards him and shot him a smile, one that he hesitantly returned.

The bistro had been crowded with the lunch rush, but they were able to squeeze into a decorative metal table outside, an umbrella shading the majority of them from the heat, and the activity all around them seemed to quiet with the group.

Hermione was closest to the little restaurant, and in the shade. The breeze ricocheting all around made little goosebumps erupt on her bare legs, and she tucked herself into sitting crossed legged on the little chair that matched the table. She then pulled her hair into a bun atop her head, using an elastic from her wrist to hold the writhing mass together.

She looked at her four companions, thinking. Only months ago had they been in The Three Broomsticks when Hermione had started her endeavor to bridge gaps that the a world full of prejudice had held open. And now? Pansy was three months pregnant with Ron, Blaise had taken to coming over to the Burrow at odd times for meals, usually sitting in some secluded place talking with Ginny, and Draco Malfoy was sitting with them a little after high noon drinking a cup of coffee and laughing with Pansy over how her once form fitting shirt kept trying to slip up over her rising tummy.

And now, as Hermione sat, cold and alone, afraid in a metal prison that she couldn't get out of, this is what Hermione thought of to keep herself sane. She wasn't sure how long she'd been held there for, wasn't sure how long it was even since the last time she'd had food, or even a sip of water. But the memories helped.

Memories of Ginny and Blaise under one of the Burrow's apple trees, the latter carefully looking down at his fiery counterpart as she gently gripped his hand, and as he, never losing hold of her gaze, brought their hands up to kiss her palm. Memories of Pansy asking her to attend her first ultrasound, along with Ron, and Molly - of seeing the tiny little bean-like shape on the monitor, and Pansy crying as Ron gripped his hand and kissed her forehead, of Molly hugging her tightly, and of herself laughing, happy tears falling down her cheeks. Memories of Harry sitting with Sirius in the library at Grimmauld Place, placing Wizard's Chess, and Harry beating his Godfather for the first time ever, seeing Sirius' pride and Harry's absolute joy. Memories of her inviting Draco to Grimmauld Place, and of introducing him three weeks later to his Aunt Andromeda, and little cousin, Teddy. She had never seen anybody look so sad and happy in the same exact moment before. Memories, and memories, and memories. Hermione wasn't sure if she'd ever be able to create anymore, but at least she had these ones.

Hermione heard a crash, and her eyes squeezed shut. It sounded like somebody had decided it was time for another go at her. The rank smell in the room was lessened a bit when the door was slid open, replaced by a worse odor, and a feral growling from across the room. This was new. Hermione's eyes shot open, blinking for a minute before they adjusted to the sudden light, struggling to focus. And when they did, she wished that they hadn't. There, by the door, on some kind of chain, was a half-formed werewolf, and behind him, one of the captors that Hermione believed to be in charge.

"Hello, little birdie," he cackled a bit before coughing, clearing his throat and spitting whatever came up at her, the wet mass landing on her chained ankle. She barely flinched. That was a like a welcoming hug from a friend compared to all he'd done before. "Don't fly away," he mumbled to himself, and then quicker than she'd ever seen him move before, he shoved the snarling half-man forward and slammed the door shut.

Her last coherent thought was wondering if Greyback had been any gentler on Draco when he'd been bitten two falls ago.


	4. 3 - The Things We Do For Love

Chapter Three | The Things We Do For Love

The morning had started out like any other. Stars faded, and the sun rose, golden rays swirled together with strawberry pink and orange. Right before the blackness had begun to draw away, morning birds performed their wake up ritual of new day chirping. Hermione Granger had risen from her bed, stretched the sleep from her limbs, and done everything she might not have, if she'd been privy to the knowledge that for the next near fortnight she wouldn't have the privilege of knowing if survival would be imminent.

By the time she and Ginny had arrived at Andromeda's to babysit little Teddy it had been growing late in the afternoon. There was a Ministry Gala that night, and along with the little boy's grandmother, Arthur Weasley and Narcissa Malfoy had been invited to attend as well. Molly had planned to go as well, with her husband, but an unexpected migraine had put her off, and she'd insisted to Arthur that she'd just ask Pansy to whip her up a dose of pain potion and be done with it, and that he shouldn't miss the Gala when she might be up to joining him later on anyways.

They'd only been there or five minutes before the situation descended into utter chaos. Hermione and Ginny had been receiving instructions, while Arthur and Narcissa waited by the door for Andromeda. Teddy had been in his Aunt Cissa's arms, giggling over the raspberries she'd been blowing onto his cheeks.

And then, there was light.

Pure, electrifying, _blinding_ light. A cacophony of screeching curses echoing around the small cottage, wands being spelled away from their Order owners before given the chance to even react to the new situation. Hermione blindly searched, for anyone familiar, or anything that she could use as a weapon. Even without her sight, she was Hermione Granger, and she would not go down without giving her all.

Her arm was grasped then, and twisted hard. So hard that the young woman wondered if some delicate bone might have been shattered in the altercation. Bruises were most likely already forming.

The volume around her increased violently, and Hermione crashed her hands to her ears, shaking off whoever had grasped her suddenly, begging to Merlin that the sound might stop. She swayed as dizziness afflicted her, scratching herself on what she assumed to be a counter top before crashing hard to her knees. When she cried out, the pain taking over her nerves, she panicked to realize that she could barely hear it. And then, there was silence. Everything seemed to be still. Hermione could feel blood pooling around her fingertips, and recognized that her eardrums must have broken. The quiet was a reprieve, only now she was stuck with the deafening din of her own thoughts, scattered and harried in the confusion. Her wand gone, her loved ones most likely suffering the same fate; Hermione didn't even have a chance to take a deep breathe before the tell-tale signs of side-along apparition sucked her through time and space. Fighting fruitlessly, she receded into the draw of unconsciousness.

Behind them, the cottage was still. The other household members and guests had received much the same treatment as the girl, even if she didn't know it, and behind them lay the perfect crime scene. A blank slate. As if nobody had ever been there tonight.

The only evidence as to the nefarious act that had taken place was a note that lay on the floor. February 02nd, it stated, with midnight written next to it in block letters. "10,000 galleons or they die."

When Hermione woke, it was not to her white comforter and singular pillow, but to the stench of urine, and blood. She had trouble opening her eyes, but when she did, the fecal matter that seemed to coat the walls made her wish that she hadn't. The air around her was stagnant, a putrid side-effect of whatever hollow hole she'd become entrapped within.

Looking around, swiveling her head from side to side, made her nauseous, the smell going straight to her head and making her dizzy, but through the faze she was able to discern walls… three full concrete ones, and then in front of her a barred entrance. Thick metal pipes, as big as her wrist, intercrossing with others to make her fully aware of just how trapped she really was.

She was slumped on a cot, one which suggested, as it moaned and groaned beneath her, that it had seen better days. She had barely even shifted upon it yet. Within her cell, aside from the, er, _remnants_ of past prisoners, she was alone. As uneager as she was to place her feet upon the floor of this place, she needed to have her wits about her, something that she could only do if she had her bearings about her, as well as a better grasp of her surroundings. So, trying her best not to think about the squelching noise beneath each step, she walked forward.

Her cage was small, and it only took two very hesitant steps to reach the bars, which she wrapped her fists around. In front of her was a dirt wall, leading off in both directions to form a hallway. It was falling apart in some places, while growing flowers and weeds in others. Distinct opposites, Hermione marveled. After all, who would expect to find growth down here when so clearly this place was surrounded by the essence of death?

She was wary to speak out in this place, but figured that her need to see who else might be with her in this place was bigger than the threat of whoever had brought them here in the first place discovering that she was awake. Besides, it was likely that the dirt wall opposite her would tamp down on the noise generated by her plea to discover if she was alone or not. But as much as she hoped that her comrades would be able to hear her voice, that she would be able to hear theirs, and that they wouldn't be alone, she also hoped that she wouldn't. She wouldn't wish this place on even her tormenters from back at school, let alone those she loved… those she called family.

Her questioning hello, despite the earthen structure, seemed to echo down chutes of hallways, sending her voice ricocheting all over the place. And it was quiet; a quiet that seemed even emptier than it had been before, due to the anticipation that went unfulfilled after her attempt at contact.

Hermione shrunk into herself, pressing her forehead against the bars, warm and sharp against her flesh, grasping tighter with her hands in order to keep herself up. Her knees were bending, and if anything could make this situation worse, it would be collapsing into the excrement that seemed to coat near every surface in this hellhole.

There's a sound sometime after, a shuffling sort of throb against a surface that she cannot place, a dull pounding that, even when it stops minutes later, Hermione can't seem to get out of her head. And then clarity comes with the recognition that the noise is footsteps, and they are coming towards her, and Hermione is backing up, slipping in the muck, and falling backwards upon the cot, catching her upper arm on the wall and scraping it up the back.

There's a woman that's at the entrance, but the only deductive reasoning behind this is due to the swell of breasts that Hermione can see under her shirt. The rest of her, from her legs and arms covered in Dragonhide apparel, to the mask that resembles fencing attire, is hidden. Not even a hint alluding to skin color, or age. Except she must be at least full grown, Hermione assumes. The woman is tall, and lithe. She's most likely be beautiful, except when her wand waves and the cell gate opens, and the woman steps in, heedless of the mess upon the floor, the blackest of auras greets Hermione, and something roils in her stomach that must be the last meal she ate, whenever that was.

She's reached Hermione at this point, and gestures towards the door, grabbing hard her wrist, only tugging more insistently when her prisoner grunts in pain. So Hermione inclines herself to be led. Out of her cell and to the right they go, passing grungy cells in the same condition as Hermione's own. She loses count between twelve and eighteen when the woman behind her shoves her to move quicker and Hermione trips, stumbling upon the dirt ground below her, getting pulled when the woman keeps moving. Apparently she's bound the two of them together, because as Hermione's captor keeps going, she's dragged along right behind her, until she stumbles to her feet as best she can in order to keep herself from becoming part of the walkway below.

Finally, they've come to the end of this supposed cell block, by reaching a metal plated door, a silver turnstile directly in the center. The woman, instead of opening the door herself, pushes Hermione violently behind her, before knocking thrice upon said turnstile. Barely has she removed her hand from the plating when it's opening, as if whoever or whatever is on the other side has been expecting her.

Beyond the door is another hallway, but it's pristine white walls that shine like made out of fiberglass are a far cry different than those they'd just been passing. There's a man holding the door open, with muscles that simply pore out of his clothing, and dark hair that falls perfectly upon wide shoulders. Something is wrong though, and his spirit looks broken. He won't meet her eyes as they pass, but she's able to glimpse a fogginess within them that hints at the Imperius Curse. Once they're past, the woman prods him sharply in his side with her wand, and monotonously he closes the door, spinning the turnstile after doing so. Hermione can hear it click into place.

This hallway is different. It isn't lined with cells for one thing, but with doors of the same sheening material, plate glass windows in the center top of each quadrant. The woman, moving to the one a few steps ahead of them and on the right, starts to pull off one of her gloves, revealing long, crimson nails, and skin a smooth, toffee tan color. Placing her palm on the door, letting it recognize her magical signature, it opens, and beyond is everything Hermione had both hoped and dreaded.

Ginny is pale with what looks to be blood loss, given the way she's gingerly holding her scrapped stomach, and leaning heavily on Narcissa, who other than fretting in silence and doing her best to comfort the shaking girl in her arms, looks to be otherwise okay.

Arthur is laying on the floor, trembling, and it's then that Hermione notices that it isn't just her loved ones in the room, but seven others, not including the woman who had escorted her here. They are dressed in black, from head to toe, a cliché that Hermione forces herself to think about, just enough to stay in touch with herself, with the reality of their situation. One of them, small and thin, is standing just in front of the others, is pointing his wand towards the Weasley Patriarch, and commanding in a voice so deep it sounds magically altered, that he must stand up.

Andromeda is standing stoically behind them all, doing her best to hush and contain and sobbing Teddy. Like her sister, she seemed to be relatively unharmed, aside from also being rather pale. She kept shooting glances towards Ginny, looking towards her stomach, and then her face becoming bright red in fury.

The woman makes her presence known, barking at Arthur to stand, and in doing so, she feels the eyes of everybody in the room fall to them, the captors in black to the woman, and her friends to her. Arthur, not too quick on his feet feels the pain of his actions when, instead of directly punishing him for his lack of speed, turns her wand on Ginny, speaking ' _Crucio'_ , and holds it, as she begins to move towards the men.

And then Hermione is blindsiding her, knocking her over, breaking her focus. She's got the woman's mask halfway off before she herself feels the effects of the Unforgivable on her, the breathe leaving her body as she convulses, in pain and in the effort to gasp down air. She's had this curse put upon her before, but _never_ like this. Not even when under Bellatrix Lestrange's care.

She hears screaming, a shriek that absolutely tears itself through the air, and wonders who it's coming from, deliriously grateful in the knowledge that at least one person is suffering an ounce of this pain, not for the sake of them feeling it, but for the companionship. Except, she realizes, it's _her_ screaming.

There are multicolored dots flashing in her mind, and there's a phone ringing. She can feel her leg snap with the sheer effort of how hard she's accidentally brought it down against the floor. She didn't think such a thing was possible, but that thought vanishes, a fresh new wave of pain engulfing her entire physical being, so much so that she'll wonder later if not even the very smallest fractions of her were unable to escape.

And then the curse is gone, removed by its castor, except the pain is still there, recoiling in her entire body. Her lungs are on _fire_ and it takes several seconds for her bodies flesh memory to remember how to breathe. The first inhale feels like burning in Hell, and being glad of the experience, and vaguely Hermione is wondering if this is what it feels like to be insane. Except she isn't, and the ringing she's just barely identified to be coming from her ears has started to fade.

Her eyes are open, and focusing now, enough to see the woman pull back on her mask, hiding some disfigurement, black as night hair and a green eye disappearing beneath the coverage it had before Hermione had flailed at it in her attempt to stop Ginny's pain.

A feminine voice is talking, Hermione suddenly grasps, a lilting sort of sound that is directed towards her. But the ringing is still too much for her, and the only word she's able to make out of the din inside her head is "Kali," and it's a faded word, directed towards the masked woman, the leader Hermione comprehends. The moniker of a goddess of destruction… how fitting.

Suddenly all the noise is gone, and it's utterly silent. Terrified for moments, she's afraid she's lost her hearing again, like back at Andromeda's when they'd been taken. It takes a minute to take in that the silence all around is because nobody is talking, or moving. Nobody looks like they're really even breathing. Except then Teddy is wailing again, and one of the figures in black shoots a silencing spell towards him, mumbling it under their breath.

Shakily, Hermione stands, and it hurts, it hurts so bad that Hermione wonders if she might pass out, but she does it. She's drawing strength from some part of her that has never allowed her to give up on anything, and she hobbles as best as she can towards her people. And then Arthur, looking her straight in the eyes, moves to her, hoists her as best he can, and then they're shuffling together. She knows that he's in pain, she can see it in his eyes, in the grimace of every step, and every exhale. But he's there, and in the insurmountable danger of this situation, she can draw strength from that… from all of them, and _for_ them.

With a rattling breath and the gritting of her teeth, Hermione is grasping for any foothold that she can to protect them, and she moves to stand and quake in front of their kidnappers. And if she falls, she falls, but she'll do it in defense of the five behind her, and she'll do it until her last exhale. Hermione is determined to go down with a fight, especially if they've gathered them all here to kill them. Even if it kills her, at least she'll have died in defense of those that hold pieces of her heart. After all, she has pieces of theirs too. They are each other's.

The woman, _Kali_ , Hermione remembers, watches all of this, shoulders subtly shaking with either rage or amusement. Which, she doesn't know, but either is a terrifying thought anyways. She supposes it doesn't matter in the long run.

Kali decides to speak then, her voice cold, decisive.

"The whole world can change in a second. Life, death, and everything in between. It's all just numbers and ticks on a clock and _waiting_ for the next person to screw you over. Luckily for you, today is not that day.

"We wanted to keep you here, to show you just how much you've ruined. This is your fault. This never would have happened, but not for your own actions, and your need to upturn our world more than you already have, it's your fault. But in these past days you debt has been paid. At least," and here she paused, inhaling largely as if to bolster whatever her next statement would be. Then, with an impossibly great level of malice, then continued, "for all of you but one."

Hermione hadn't been sure what Kali was talking about at first… the war maybe? But they hadn't started that at all, if anything, they'd finished that. How could somebody be so angry about the end of a regime that would, uncertainly, mean the end for all of them? She'd mentioned that it had been days too, but yet Hermione had only awoken a short time ago. It obviously hadn't been the same for others, that much was clear. Aside from her putrid holding conditions, she hadn't been tortured at the same level that any of these people had, aside from her recent subjection to the Cruciatus Curse.

What did make sense though, was that not all of them were going to be allowed home, and given that Hermione had seemingly not been allowed to wake the past few days, she bet it was going to be her. Not that she would allow any of her loved ones to stay behind for her anyways.

It hurt, sharp pains shooting through her leg, but she was determined, and made to move in front of all her people. When she got there, she didn't look back either. Arthur was softly calling her name, and so was Narcissa, but their pleas went unanswered. She knew that if she looked, she might cry, and if she cried, more pleasure would be given to their captors, and more pain to her friends. Kali laughed at her actions, a booming chuckle that made one of her accomplices jump.

"Your efforts are futile, sweetheart, as valiant as you might think they are. You'd be the one staying behind anyways. You are, after all, Hermione Granger." This time, it wasn't Kali who spoke, but the one who had tortured Arthur earlier, the smaller one who seemed to be Kali's consort.

"You're letting us go? Why?" Andromeda's voice was shaky, but firm, upholding the traditions of her formal upbringing. Strength under fire, she had.

"Because larger numbers turn crimes into statistics, and lower numbers are seen as tragedies. And one? A one that is loved by the media and is an active topic among wizards and witches alike? That becomes just what we need to make a point... and to send a message." It was another henchman who answered this time, another woman, though this one sounded to be far younger than Kali, a guess proved true by the way that she ripped off her mask while talking.

Lithe and lively looking she was, with high cheekbones and dark amber eyes, that of which seemed to have seen too much of the world. Her russet hair was bound together in a tight braid, falling to her lower back, and though she was standing farther back behind the rest of her compatriot assailants, it was clear that she was quite tall.

None of this beauty however was equal to the tired malice that seemed to emanate from her.

Judging from the gasp that Narcissa let out in sequence, it was clear that she had recognized the girl. "Patyra?" She uttered the name with such soft conviction that if she and Ginny had not been directly behind her, Hermione might have missed Narcissa utter it. Turning slightly, it was with trepidation that Hermione became aware that now, and only now, tears had begun to dot the older woman's cheeks.

Despite her murmured query, no answer was given.

"Aside from that astute statement, and despite all that we may seem to you, we gave our word on the matter of your return, and the money demanded was paid in full, looped through Madame Malfoy here's son and traded off. No trouble was given as we'd expected and for that we have agreed to uphold our end of this pseudo bargain." Kali began to smirk, as if she liked the taste her own words left within upon her tongue.

Another voice, a new voice, spoke then, a man given his deep tones and burly set, uttering out that it was time, and bringing rapidly to a conclusion whatever they had all been gathered within the room for.

One by one, each kidnapper stood wand at the ready next to the captives, aside from Kali and the faintly identified Patyra. At that, they were led back through the door which Hermione had been led, and to the right, disappearing from Hermione's sight. The door clicked behind the disappearing form of Andromeda and Teddy, still and wary being held in his grandmothers arms. The silencing spell would have lifted by now. It looked as if the young boy had simply protested as much as his small body was able.

Kali, nodding at the still unmasked Patyra, disappeared a minute later through the same door. And then it was just the two of them. Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but her counterpart beat her to it.

"Please don't ask me any questions. I don't – I _can't_ give you the answers that you're after and I… just, please don't ask me anything. Hold on, for as long as you can, and it will be over soon. I promise." The girl's voice was firm, despite the hushed tone of her words. It hit something in Hermione, some part of her soul that for some reason, beyond anything she could comprehend, that this girl wasn't the one she should be afraid of. Shaking the feeling off, Hermione did the only thing that seemed to make sense for her in that moment and she held her tongue. As Patyra gestured for her to move forward, she went, going as willingly as she could while being held at wand point, turning out the door to head back towards the cell block.

The cell that Patyra had led Hermione to, dragging her leg behind her, this time was better than the last one. While smaller, it didn't have feces ground into the walls and floors, and the stink of urine wasn't as strong here. The cot pressed into the corner seemed sturdier as well, Hermione noticed. As much as she didn't want to press herself into it, not knowing who else had been there, she let herself curl up into it, closing her eyes tightly, pretending that the stink was a mess her cat at home had created. And for a second, at least, she was able to forget that she wasn't free any longer.

Waking from sleep, the first thing that Hermione noticed was that a significant amount of time had passed. She thought that they must be injecting her with some kind of sleeping potion, for the shadows on the walls were nonexistent, some small level of sunshine entering from an unknown place. It had been late, and black, when she'd been led into the cell, and judging the soft gray decorating the cement, she judged that it was at least nearing evening.

Hermione's head felt groggy as well, as though somebody had took it upon themselves to stuff it full of cotton, though a sharp ache at her temple amplified every movement she made as Hermione shakily sat up upon the cot. Her leg was burning fiercely, and she could detect her heartbeat throbbing in more areas than just her chest cavity.

She did her best to stretch, lengthening as much of herself as possible in order to shake out the stiffness that seemed odd for having been unconscious for less than a day. Then again, she hadn't exactly been resting peacefully, as far as she could remember; plagued with the monsters under her bed that seemed to appear in her dreams whenever she was particularly stressed.

It was then that the feel of eyes made themselves apparent from the cell entrance, and as if by the force of her eyes, but really the will of the castor, a disillusionment charm was nonverbally lifted. And there underneath it was Kali, clad as before, along with two of whom used to be wearing the black suits, now adorned in what seemed to be protective gear and charms, the waft of the latter sheening with a subtle efferent glow.

The first man, closest to the tall woman, was a much shorter man, though his muscles were thick, riddling his flesh with visible veins. His bicep seemed nearly as big as Hermione's head itself. He wore a wedding band on his ring finger, though the thing presently was caked with the alarming substance of viscous plasma. His dark eyes were smooth, watchful, and a creamy dark brown color. The man was bald.

Next to him was a younger man, perhaps twenty years the other man's junior, in his early or mid-twenties. He looked nearly as lithe as Kali, though clearly heavily muscled as well, the protective body suit he wore clinging neatly to him. He had sandy hair, and it fell in a mop all over his head, dusting the tops of his eyelids, and looked as if he had not washed it for some time. It looked greasier than Hermione's seemed to feel.

In between the two was what scared Hermione the most though, a roped back, straining, _snarling,_ specimen that heavily resembled the wolf-man that had been to the one to take Hermione herself into Malfoy Manor nearly a year ago. There was blood on this creature's protruding nails, unnaturally long, as well as deep wedges in his skin where it looked as though he'd dug into himself.

Long, muddy hair hung down the shoulders of this half-transformed werewolf, and his bearded face hid a pockmarked pallor that, once again, looked to be self-inflicted. He was tall, and literally rough around the edges, with calloused skin and welted scars. His eyes looked like sky blue paint.

Kali was smirking, sidestepping cleanly to the right when the werewolf lunged forwards towards the bars, and Hermione scooted backwards farther towards the wall. At least, she would have had she not been suddenly paralyzed, held with a body bind. And now, the dread that Hermione had been attempting to hold back, suddenly flooded her with all the intensity that it seemed her fight or flight had been able to muster.

"Hermione, meet Skoll Greyback." And with those four words, the cell gate was opening and the half-transformed wolf was tearing his way inside. Then the gate was shutting, and Hermione's fate was sealed.

The first thing after the fact that Hermione did was try to cover the vital parts of her, arms reaching and head bowing, twisting her upper body into a cocoon, and to her surprise, the body bind had been lifted, allowing her to do so.

That amazement left quickly, giving way to a shearing pain as the bone in Hermione's upper arm snapped under the force of jaws closing down upon it, the weight of Skoll falling upon her, his thigh pressing against her already fractured leg, and in his craze, his arms pouncing upon her to scrape and dig, to claw against her malleable flesh.

His breathe against her was hot, and smelled of rot, and she felt his tongue as it licked upon her body, as if tasting the very essence of his prey's complete and utter fear. And then all there was in the universe was pain, and so very much of it, and the world was fading. The very last thing to breach Hermione's mind was wonderment. Wonderment directed towards her own amber eyes meeting that of the sky, and she pondered if this blue was the last thing she would see before falling into oblivion, and gratefulness, towards being able to see the free, clear sky, a landmark so beautiful, after being held captive. Then the darkness was encroaching, and Hermione was fading, and then everything drifted into stark and solid emptiness.


End file.
